


Somebody Else

by SaraDobieBauer



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Accidentally Got Sad, Angst, Armie Hammer - Freeform, Armie is Noticeably Absent, Bisexuality, Call me by your name, Charmie, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Graham Norton Show - Freeform, Inspired by Call Me By Your Name, London, M/M, Matt POV, Matthew Healy - Freeform, Matty is Conflicted, Mutual Pining, Pining, Timothee Chalamet - Freeform, Timothee is Fun in Bed, matty healy - Freeform, oops angst, the 1975
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-26 22:51:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17755001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaraDobieBauer/pseuds/SaraDobieBauer
Summary: Matty Healy, lead singer of The 1975, has had a thing for Timothee Chalamet since CMBYN. What happens when they meet on the Graham Norton Show?





	Somebody Else

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what happened, okay? I watched the Timothee Chalamet/1975 Graham Norton episode last night, and this ... happened. For the record, I'm obsessed with Tim and Armie, but I love Matty Healy and all his music. This was gonna be fluffy, but it got a little dark, probably because I was listening to The 1975's "Somebody Else" while writing.
> 
> (If you haven't heard "Somebody Else," you must: [LISTEN](https://youtu.be/UxVRhrfsleQ).)
> 
> Love to all. Sorry this got sad instead of smutty, but I hope you enjoy xoxo

Matty is alarmed that Timothee Chalamet is even better looking in person.

“It ain’t fuckin’ right,” he says in an empty room to no one in particular. His band mates know he likes to be alone before a gig, especially a big one like Graham Norton. 

Matty still gets nervous. It’s ridiculous really; he knows it is. He should be cool and calm. Instead, he’s a bundle of skinny British nerves … However, if he’s honest, it’s not only because of the performance.

It’s because of “the boy.”

When they play a clip of Saoirse Ronan’s upcoming film, Matty covers his face with his hands just for a moment. God, what’d he been thinking in that stupid interview?

_“I have a weird kind of man crush on that boy … that Timothee boy. I saw him in_ Call Me By Your Name _, and I was a bit like hmm … hmm … interesting feelings.”_

It seemed fated that they would eventually meet. Just his luck, right?

And of course, Tim is even fucking better looking in person. They didn’t get the chance to meet earlier as Tim had to rush out onto the stage, but Matty saw him from a few feet away. Since then, Matty has been watching on the little screen in his quiet, lonely room.

Tim is nervous, too. It’s about as obvious as a fatal head wound. Guy might as well be bleeding from his beautiful eyes.

“Gawd, so fucking beautiful,” Matty mutters. “Damn it.”

Tim is smart and accidentally funny and scared half to death out there on that stage in front of a huge British audience, half of whom might not know who he is. Matty wants to give him a hug.

“Shite. Shite.” He stands and turns away from the TV, drags his hands through his hair a couple times. It’ll be show time soon, and Matty needs to get in the right bloody mindset.

_Stop focusing on Tim,_  he tells himself. Maybe Tim never saw that stupid clip of Matty talking out his ass, huh? Maybe he has no clue.

“Naw, it’ll be fine,” he says. He jumps up and down on the tips of his toes to get the energy moving before opening the door and walking into the hall, brightly lit, where the rest of The 1975, back-up singers included, linger.

Adam, his lead guitarist, asks if he’s okay.

Matty nods. “Course. Yeah.” He nods like he’s talking himself into it.

*** 

The performance is bloody mint. Perfection. Matty feels the music and dances around the stage in homage to the great Talking Heads. He tries not to glance toward Graham and the others—Tim, in particular.

_Just don’t make eye contact_ , he thinks.

Of course, then, he does make eye contact. Once the song is over, the band has to walk over and shake hands with everyone, and Matty shakes Tim’s hand and fuck all because Tim can barely look at him.

He saw that fucking video.

The first fifteen seconds of Graham talking to him are a blur. He forgets when their record came out. He figures he looks like a frightened fawn. Well, no, that’s Tim. That’s what Tim looks like, with those big doe eyes staring at his feet as he pulls on the cuffs of his sweater—not that Matty was looking.

Jesus, Matty can’t stop looking.

He gets himself together a bit once Graham asks about Adam and _The Lovely Bones_ because it’s a funny story, and Matty—when not utterly embarrassed—is funny and a little bit brilliant. Once that’s done, he waits in dread.

Graham likes embarrassing guests, and Matty half expects the nasty bugger to bring up Matty’s man crush on Tim. Thank Christ and all the angels he doesn’t. The way Tim is curled over on himself halfway down the couch, Matty figures the boy would disappear in a poof of smoke if Graham brought it up.

They make it through the entire show unscathed.

It’s Saoirse who says they should all go out for drinks afterward. Tim stands behind her, lingering over her left shoulder, while she issues invitations.

And that’s when it happens: Tim looks right at Matty … and smiles.

***

They’ve been dancing and drinking for hours, but the club is loud, crowded, and dark enough that their small group of celebrities doesn’t make a fuss. Because Matty is usually an eloquent adult, he is able to have a few conversations with Tim. The alcohol helps. And that skull sweater is softer than Matty expected. Possibly due to the alcohol, he reached out once and grabbed Tim’s skinny waist to get his attention.

He likes watching Tim laugh the most. No matter how brooding he can be on red carpets, with those damn fuck-me eyes, it’s the wide-mouthed laugh that makes Matty laugh back. It’s got to end soon, though; it’s getting late.

Matty hates this part. He hates the going home after a successful gig. It’s the reason he got addicted to opioids years back. He needed something to bring him down, quiet the crowd in his head. His boys will keep close if he asks, but it’s not them he wants right now. It’s …

He feels a hand on his shoulder and glances back. 

It’s Tim. He’s surprisingly tall really. Then again, Matty is used to seeing him next to Armie Hammer—that grand statue of a man. Without Armie around, Tim is one of the tallest guys in the vicinity. He certainly has a couple inches on Matty, which does weird things to his stomach.

“Hey, um …” Tim opens his mouth to say more but stops, laughs, stares at his feet.

“What is it, mate?”

Tim’s tongue pokes out and licks his pink lower lip. What kind of bloke even has lips like that? Bloody rose petals. “Man, I might be totally off base, but did you want to come back to my hotel for a nightcap?”

Matty doesn’t hesitate to say yes.

***

Tim’s hotel room is a disaster of suitcases and clothes, but he doesn’t apologize when they walk in. There’s an empty coffee cup on the desk and some scattered papers—looks like a script. The room smells like Tim. With all the stress of earlier, Matty didn’t even notice Tim had a smell until that moment, but he recognizes it: Eau des Baux.

Matty went through a short French perfume phase, and he’d always liked that one because it smelled like spice, summer forest, and vanilla. Smelled magical in a way, like something a Tolkien elf might wear.

“You smell good,” Matty blurts as Tim digs through his tiny fridge for mini-bottles.

Tim smiles at the floor. His brow furrows, and he stands there unmoving, silent. So does Matty.

As if he’s made up his mind about something, though, Tim puts the two small bottles of gin on the hotel room desk, walks right up to Matty, and kisses him. It’s sudden, so Matty’s first response is to duck his head, back away, but it’s not a rejection. It’s a recalibration. Matty hasn’t kissed a bloke in ages, and even though it’s not that different, it’s still _different_ , especially since Tim is taller. 

“Fuck.” Tim takes a step back. “Shit, I’m so sorry. I always do this, read things wrong. Shit.”

Matty can literally see Tim being sucked into a rejection spiral, and that’s not a bit okay. He takes hold of Tim’s soft sweater and pulls him close. He presses their lips together and kisses.

It’s like a claiming—nothing gentle or tentative. It’s two men silently saying, “Mine,” with teeth and tongues and hands gripping clothes. Matty doesn’t remember walking. Either he unconsciously moved them to the bed or maybe Tim dragged them. Either way, Tim falls backwards onto unmade sheets, and Matty falls right on top of him. 

They silently agree to scoot back so both their legs aren’t still hanging onto the floor. Then, they’re kissing again, and Tim’s face feels so good in Matty’s hands. As if he’s been waiting an entire year for this—ever since he saw Tim become Elio Perlman—Matty feels relief as he dips his head lower and sucks the side of Tim’s neck.

He lifts up on his hands and stares down at the Oscar-nominee that he currently straddles. Words bubble up, and Matty doesn’t dare stop them. “God, look at you. You’re so soft and sweet and fucking gorgeous. I don’t even care that you have a dick." 

Tim snorts. “Um, I care that I have a dick.”

“No, that’s not what I …” Matty shakes his head. “I’m not gay, you know. I’m barely bisexual really. But it’s just … you. There’s something about _you_.”

Tim reaches up and holds Matty’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. It’s somehow both dominant and playful at the same time. “We don’t have to do anything. We can just kiss. I mean …” He smiles, gentle and bright. “I’d be happy just to have you play with my hair.”

At its mention, Matty digs both hands into Tim’s curls. “This. Fucking. Hair. This gorgeous fucking hair.” He dips down and kisses Tim’s smile until Tim’s smile becomes a welcoming of Matty’s tongue.

Tim is small. He’s tall, but he’s small. Matty feels like he could crush him, so imagine his surprise when Tim manages to flip them both over. Matty ends up disoriented, flat on his back, with Tim straddling his hips. He cusses while Tim tugs at his shirt. He tugs until Matty’s chest tattoo is revealed.

When Tim licks across ink, it’s like Matty has been punched. He lurches up onto his elbows so he can better watch Tim’s tongue tasting him.

Half his brown curls in his face, Timmy glances up and smirks. “I’ve never been with a guy with so many tattoos.”

“You’re a bloody menace.”

Tim licks his chest again, and okay, so maybe Matty isn’t quite ready for all these _feelings_. He wrestles Tim back over so their positions are reversed, and it just feels right to pin Tim’s arms above his head because Matty is frankly a bit worried what those delicate hands of his might get into next.

Matty didn’t count on Tim’s long legs. They wrap around his waist and drag him down so their hips crush together. Matty mumbles something like “Mmph” before wiggling up onto his knees—a half-assed effort at escape. “Christ, you’re wily in bed.”

Tim grins and relinquishes Matty’s hips from his thigh grip. Beneath him, Tim goes pliant and studies Matty’s face.

Matty’s brain is fuzzy with lust and admiration and the sweetness of this perfectly wonderful, gorgeous it-boy. Hollywood’s fae prince. “I think I love you,” he laughs.

And Tim laughs back.

*** 

It’s true, they don’t necessarily “do” anything. They kiss a bit more and play wrestle. Tim is a lot stronger than he looks, but Matty imagines it helps having all those long appendages.

Now, they recline in bed together, Tim cuddled against Matty’s chest as they drink mini-bottles of gin and Matty does indeed play with Tim’s hair.

“Why were you so nervous on the show?” Matty asks. “Are you always like that?”

Tim nods. “Yeah. I hate interviews in front of a live audience. I’d rather shove a screwdriver up my nose.” He sips gin, and his breath smells like pine. “Why were _you_ so nervous on the show?”

“Psh.” He rubs his chin back and forth over the top of Tim’s head while his fingers tangle in curls. “Thought you woulda guessed.” 

Tim chuckles. “Because of that video.”

Matty groans. “I knew you saw it. I bloody knew it.”

“Saoirse sent it to me. Like, this afternoon.” Tim nuzzles closer and puts a hand on Matty’s knee. “I liked it. Someone like you saying that about me.”

“What, like you don’t hear it all the time?”

Tim shrugs in Matty’s arms. “Yeah, but you’re … you.”

“And what am I? A pretentious rock star with shite teeth?”

Tim squeezes his knee. “I like your teeth.”

Matty kisses his forehead. “I like your everything.”

Tim turns his head and speaks against Matty’s neck. “Except my dick.” 

Matty laughs loud and hard while Timmy nibbles the edge of his jaw. “Frankly, I don’t think I’d know what to do with it.” 

“You have one!”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want to know anyone else’s!” He pulls Tim closer, tight against his body. “This is nice, though.” 

Tim sighs and relaxes completely against him. He’s a warm weight that runs the length of Matty’s body as they sip their crappy hotel gin and sink closer and closer to sleep, still dressed with mouths that taste like each other and a bit of smoke from a split cigarette.

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

Tim nods and says, “Mm-hmm.”

“What’s the story with you and Armie Hammer?”

Tim shifts down lower on the bed so he can rest his head on Matty’s shoulder and sticks his hand up his shirt, using warm fingertips to map tattoos. “Mm, long story.” 

Tim folds one of his legs over Matty’s. It all feels so comfortable, so normal, Matty might maybe question himself on it all later. Maybe not, though. Something about Tim is safe, and even though they spent the better part of two hours kissing, the sexual tension is gone—if there ever was any. Perhaps they were just two intelligent, sensitive men who recognized each other. Perhaps, like Matty, Tim doesn’t like being alone.

“You shagged, didn’t you?”

Tim yawns. “Yeah.”

“Just for that movie or …”

“No, not for the movie. After. After the Oscars.” 

Tim’s spine is knobby under Matty’s hand. “Just once?”

“No, not just once.”

Matty blinks toward the window, the nighttime lights of London beyond. “Christ, are you still shagging him now?”

Tim rubs his face on Matty’s shoulder. Sounding half asleep, he mutters, “Yeah.”

“Then why aren’t you with him tonight?” 

Tim’s tongue clicks. “It’s complicated.”

If possible, Matty holds Tim tighter. It helps when he tosses his empty gin bottle and holds on with both hands. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but nothing should be ‘complicated’ with you, Tim. You deserve fucking diamonds and roses, mate. Declarations of love shouted from rooftops.”

Tim doesn’t say anything. Matty worries that he’s either grandly overstepped or, better, Tim has fallen asleep. He startles when Tim says, “I know.” He lifts his head and kisses Matty’s cheek. He stares up at him with sleepy doe eyes, and Matty’s already melted heart melts some more. “Thanks for being here tonight.” Then, like a cat preparing for a long nap, he nuzzles, shifts, shimmies, and hums until he apparently finds the perfect position, wrapped around Matty Fucking Healy—rock star, big mouth, recovering addict—and falls asleep.

For his part, Matty stays up a bit longer and worries and thinks and is thankful and worries some more. His own song comes to mind … 

_I don't want your body_  
_But I hate to think about you with somebody else_  
_Our love has gone cold_  
_You're intertwining your soul with somebody else_

Matty never thought it possible, but he feels bad for Armie Hammer—that grand statue of a man with the money and looks and charisma—and _Call Me By Your Name_ seems all the more melancholy for its autobiographical nature. 

Tim mumbles in his sleep, but the words have a semblance of meaning.

Matty inquires with a hum, so Tim repeats himself: “You’re already writing a new song, aren’t you?”

“Oh, piss off, you.” 

Tim chuckles against his collarbone and slips back into sleep as into a warm bath.

“I’ll call your song ‘Beautiful Boy,’” Matty whispers to a room empty of listening ears. He started the evening alone, and in the morning, it’ll be the same. Even with Tim sprawled across him, he's lonely again already. Perhaps they all are. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come play with me on [Tumblr](http://saradobiebauer.tumblr.com/)! I'm ridiculously in love with Timmy over there.


End file.
